thee, but this sweet repentance
Locks up my vengeance; for which thus I kiss thee—
The last kiss we must take! And ’would to Heaven
The holy priest, that gave our hands together,
Had given us equal virtues! Go, Evadne;
The Gods thus part our bodies. Have a care
My honour falls no farther: I am well then.

Evad. All the dear joys here, and, above, hereafter,
Crown thy fair soul! Thus I take leave, my lord;
And never shall you see the foul Evadne,
Till she have tried all honour’d means, that may
Set her in rest, and wash her stains away.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.—The Presence Chamber.

Banquet—Enter KING and CALIANAX—Hautboys play within.

King. I cannot tell how I should credit this
From you, that are his enemy.

Cal. I am sure
He said it to me; and I’ll justify it
What way he dares oppose—but with my sword.

King. But did he break, without all circumstance,
To you, his foe, that he would have the fort,
To kill me, and then ’scape?

Cal. If he deny it,
I’ll make him blush.

King. It sounds incredibly.

Cal. Ay, so does everything I say of late.

King. Not so, Calianax.

Cal. Yes, I should sit
Mute, whilst a rogue with strong arms cuts your throat.

King. Well, I will try him; and, if this be true,
I’ll pawn my life I’ll find it. If’t be false,
And that you clothe your hate in such a lie,
You shall hereafter dote in your own house,
Not in the court.

Cal. Why, if it be a lie,
Mine ears are false; for, I’ll be sworn, I heard it.
Old men are good for nothing: You were best
Put me to death for hearing, and free him
For meaning it. You would have trusted me
Once, but the time is alter’d.

King. And will still,
Where I may do with justice to the world:
You have no witness?

Cal. Yes, myself.

King. No more,
I mean, there were that heard it.

Cal. How! no more?
Would you have more? why, am not I enough
To hang a thousand rogues?

King. But, so, you may
Hang honest men too, if you please.

Cal. I may!
’Tis like I will do so: There are a hundred
Will swear it for a need too, if I say it—

King. Such witnesses we need not.

Cal. And ’tis hard
If my word cannot hang a boisterous knave.

King. Enough.—Where’s Strato?

Stra. Sir!